


A Hawke By Any Other Nickname

by Fyeahvarric



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyeahvarric/pseuds/Fyeahvarric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric has a nickname for seemingly everyone, Cecilia Hawke can't resist the urge to find out what inspired her own, and Isabela is, as always, clever as can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hawke By Any Other Nickname

**Author's Note:**

> I've procrastinated far too long in posting this here.
> 
> A bit of implied and yet unfulfilled Varric/FemHawke in this ficlet. Also, Cecilia Hawke not being able to hold her liquor and thus being perhaps a bit obnoxious as a result. If there is some set way for playing Wicked Grace I can't say that I know of it, so the game is mostly bereft of explanation in this story. 
> 
> I hope this offers someone a chuckle.

A Hawke By Any Other Nickname

 

~ * * * * *

“Your turn to draw, Hawke.”

Cecilia had never had a particular knack for card games. Or drinking for that matter. Fighting, working persuasive charms, and whittling a block of wood in to a Mabari tended to be her strong suits. Wicked Grace with the addition of ale, no matter how watered down, more often than not left Kirkwall’s esteemed Champion a bit at a loss and typically a little unpredictable, even to a dwarf with keen skills of perception.

Isabela’s grin could usually be taken as a sign of imminent victory or a mask for a less than stellar hand and the pirate was usually a worthy opponent when cards and coin were on the table. Merrill, never with much concern for winning and more eagerness to simply play the game with dear friends, often let her tongue curl over her teeth when it was nearly her turn to pick up a card. Their expressions were as familiar as the wrinkle forming across Cecilia’s brow, a sign of her determination to win a game for once. Or at least such had been Varric’s impression for the moment. Even a dwarf with eyes all over the city could be wrong now and again, after all.

“Why Waffles?”

The question had Merrill’s tongue retreating behind her teeth and Isabela’s grin shifting to one more bemused than self assured, three sets of eyes turning from the table to the blonde staring Varric down not unlike a proper hawk might have been inclined to.

“Mind still wandering in the Vimmark Mountains, Hawke?”

“I haven’t been able to stop wondering about it ever since we returned from Chateau Haine. Why Waffles?”

On occasion, several of them as a matter of fact, Cecilia could be quite intimidating when push came to shove. Silly as it sounded, her gaze could cut like the daggers she chose to wield in battle. When necessary at least. Two mugs of ale and a frown which appeared more frustrated than fierce had thankfully dulled the severity of her expression. Thank the Maker for small, drunken mercies.

“You said you wanted a nickname.”

“Yes, but you’ve not used it since you gave it to me. And why Waffles? It’s not as if you want to eat me for breakfast.”

Isabela began chuckling almost immediately, the path of her thoughts quite possibly dirty, and her vocalized amusement provided a fair contrast to the perplexed arching of Merrill’s brows.

“Don’t be silly, Hawke! The only thing I’ve ever seen Varric eat for breakfast is sausage.”

The elf looked a great deal more confused as Isabela’s laughter became all the more pronounced, certain she had to be missing something dirty once again, and all the while Cecilia’s expression scarcely faltered. Lacking sobriety or not, the woman never failed to be too stubborn to give up on something once she’d set her mind on it.

“The front of your armor has that…pattern on it. Reminds me of waffles.”

“You based my nickname on my armor?”

Cecilia’s tone, soft and even a bit skeptical, gave the impression that she couldn’t quite believe the answer she’d been given.

“I’ve based nicknames off of hair color and birthplaces, Hawke. Is clothing that much of a surprise?”

“I…suppose not.”

“Or he could’ve just pulled a reason out of his ass to hide the fact that he pulled your nickname from the exact same location.”

“Or yes, it could be that,” Cecilia agreed, nodding her head at Isabela for her very possible assessment before she stood, cards forgotten.

A long, thin finger poked the hairiest part of the dwarf’s chest and hazy green eyes stared him down with as unwavering a look of determination as one could muster while fairly intoxicated.

“I’m on to you, Serah Tethras.”

Cecilia smirked, hovering over the table with the support of one slightly quivering arm, and then retreated once she felt she’d poked Varric a satisfactory number of times. The contents of her mug went down with a loud swallow and she strode to the door, head held high even as her steps weaved just faintly.

“We’re in the middle of a game, Hawke!”

“I was about to lose anyway and now my mug is empty. Refills for anyone?”

Varric’s glass had remained mostly untouched and thus still full whereas Isabela had yet to need another refill, waving her hand dismissively. Merrill gave her own empty cup a thoughtful glance and promptly moved to her feet, slipping an arm around Cecilia’s waist once the blonde had moved one of her own around the elf’s shoulders. Apparently neither Champion nor mage had carried much concern for emerging victorious that evening. The duo had meandered at least half way down the steps by the time Isabela shifted her attention from the cards before her to the storyteller across the table, settling an arm across the edge of the stone surface.

“Think of her covered in sticky syrup often, do you? Or perhaps you think she’s sweet and fluffy? Most of the time anyway.”

He didn’t answer and his expression was as hard to read as his game face, giving nothing away.

“You do like waffles, don’t you, Varric?”

Varric showed her both a grin as well as his winning hand and despite her groan, along with the jingle of coins being passed to him, the answer he gave a moment later offered just as much satisfaction as winning the game would have.

“Yes, Rivaini. I do like waffles.”


End file.
